Other Masquerades
by Aegle
Summary: During HBP, Remus makes an appearance at Tonks' flat. Rated M for mature situations. Oneshot.


_Note:_ Originally posted for rtchallenge. Title shamelessly plucked from T.S. Eliot's "Preludes." Rated Mature for language, adult themes/sexual situations. Set during HBP.

* * *

_**Other Masquerades**_

_Yeah, we might die from medication  
But we sure killed all the pain  
But what was normal in the evening  
By the morning seems insane  
_- "Lua" by Bright Eyes

_i._

He finds her clutching a box of matches in an unlit kitchen when he slips into the hallway, striking one over and over against the rough flint and muttering obscenities that are too soft and too distant to make out. Steam from an earlier shower has yet to dissipate in this corner of the flat. It clings to every surface and when he reaches back for the doorknob his hand comes away feeling greasy and warm.

Remus wonders how long he's slept. The clock on her nightstand had been madly flashing a red twelve a.m. when he'd woken up, cheerfully disorienting and, he's fairly certain, completely deliberate.

He blinks and takes a step forward. Everything out here is noise and motion. It doesn't help that she's playing that god-awful ethnic music either. _Ananda, ananda, prana, kama_—they're all jumbled together in his head. She's explained them before, sometime that feels very long ago, drinking tea or coffee or possibly gin on her floor and speaking bullshit and bliss. The tattered rug they sat on once is gone, and instead his feet make creaking noises on the wooden floor.

She doesn't glance at him, but mumbles instead: "Fucking thing won't light."

His head is bleary and he starts to open his mouth to tell her that this doesn't explain anything, least of all why horns and whistles are blowing at him from the speakers of the little portable on top of the breadbox, but she somehow manages to light the burner and send up a jet of blue heat several inches from her face. She's indifferent though, and he staggers, legs stiff, to the doorframe.

"The alarm clock," he says, as she fishes in the cupboards. Tin containers rattle.

"What about it?"

"Did you…you unplugged it."

"Yeah."

Knives and forks lay drying on a towel near the sink. Remus stares at them. The only utensil he's seen in three months has been the odd plastic takeout fork, sauce-covered and poking out of someone's trash bin. He leans against the countertop, running a hand over the back of his neck. His skin is hot and overly sensitive.

"Why?"

"For a psychological mind-fuck, Remus, why else?" She frowns. "Tea?"

"I—sorry, what?"

"I asked if you wanted tea," she replies.

"Not particularly."

It's a lie. The idea of _something_ filling the void in his stomach is tempting, but he's not really concerned with drinking tea from her little thrift store cups that he reckons she's bought solely because they're cheap and bohemian. It's about severing connections with the more distasteful parts of her upbringing and sometimes he wonders if she secretly thinks about things like fine china and antique teapots instead of the dingy red one on the stove. She could have it—she's not destitute or lacking, but it's all part of the image she perpetuates. Cheerful and optimistic and it used to be real, he thinks, but more and more it's a mask.

But he remembers every time he's made her laugh because he doesn't make anyone laugh.

"'Scuse me," she mutters, and he steps aside to let her reach overhead to the rack of mugs attached to the wall. Her robe has slipped open a little and he averts his eyes but not before catching a glimpse of one breast. She looks at him.

"It's still programmed to wake me up." She makes a vague gesture to the bedroom with the tea cup. "The clock."

"Oh."

"Lot of night shifts lately. Would have gone off." Tonks lets out a breath. "Loud fucking thing, too."

Quiet again. She's looking out the window and spinning the cup between her palms, and he murmurs _thanks_ because he can't think of anything else to say. Tonks exhales, and then she's leaned over and kissed him, close-mouthed and abrupt. He barely registers the feeling on his lips before she's drawn back. She's still clutching the mug.

She murmurs a bewildered apology, looking back out the window.

"It's fine," he says.

A brief nod. The muscles in her jaw clench and unclench and she stares at nothing.

_ii._

Cold tea sits abandoned on the countertop. Her hand snakes its way inside his trousers, and she meets his eyes before wrapping her fingers around his cock. For a moment his head lolls back. He gazes upward where shadows fall in muted lines and bars across the ceiling as her hand moves in firm strokes and one fingernail scratches lightly from base to tip. Every so often the silk material of her sleeve brushes lightly against his balls and Christ, it would be so easy to let his knees buckle right now. He grips the countertop, hard. Green neon flickering through the window lights his face, the signs from football stores and chain-eateries flashing their slogans while the muscles in his legs spasm. Tonks kisses the skin just below his ear and he can smell the soap she uses every time he inhales. When she sucks on his earlobe he groans and thrusts forward.

She tells him to fuck her, demands it, and he backs her gracelessly into the table, sending an empty dinner plate clattering to the linoleum. There's a quiz show on in the flat next door and he can hear the cloying voice of the announcer prompting contestants. High-pitched fanfare music vibrates against the wall as he lifts her arse onto the tabletop, lips against her collarbones and hands scrambling to undo the tie of the little bathrobe she'd bought last autumn. Her fingers are twined into his hair.

_We will return briefly after—_

Her hips frantically seek out something to move against, and he slides two long fingers into her as a commercial for laundry detergent comes on. His knuckles graze damp cotton panties.

She's biting her lip. "Please—just—"

It doesn't take any more prompting than this, not when she's splayed out on the kitchen table, nipples small and hard and contrasting against the pale skin of her breasts. He tugs on her underwear and she wriggles around trying to shed them faster than he's removing them. It's easy to pretend, with her legs wrapped around his hips, that he's not leaving in a matter of hours and that his next night won't be spent on the damp grass and soil. It's easy to pretend that she won't be here when he goes.

The sex is rough because if it's not they'll both have time to think. It's mutual gratification without the nagging presence of reality, and if they don't make eye contact for just this once he can let it drone out completely like the buzz of the radio or the garbled sounds of a television. And so the table shakes until they both cry out and come and his hair hangs in his eyes, blocking the view of sweat droplets running between her small breasts. The game show has ended next door and the only noise is the faint murmur and clashing of drums on the transistor, the thundering bass in a car paused in the street below, and their breathing. She says something about needing to shower. Seconds later she's slid down from the table and walked, naked and clutching her elbows, out of the kitchen. Remus leans against the counter, chest heaving, and watches her go.

_iii._

He is the one who breaks, hours later, breaching his own set of rules and flinging himself into complete vulnerability. He settles into the bed next to her and runs his hand awkwardly over her shoulder.

The mattress is not large by any stretch and he's pressed closely against her. It's a breed of intimacy he's not comfortable with. Every movement is hesitant and acutely painful. He expects, at any moment, for her to cringe or jerk away, and he spends almost half an hour hardly breathing for fear that she'll wrench her body away from his. But she's fading in and out of consciousness, nostrils flaring and eyes closed, and she doesn't push him away.

He looks over the curve of her shoulder. She's plugged the alarm clock back in. 2:47 glares back at him in bold numbers. Remus reaches across her and turns it to face the other way.

Tonks' hand finds his and squeezes, and he doesn't move his arm where it's resting, draped across her stomach. Her hair brushes against his nose. Eventually he sleeps.


End file.
